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One Woman's Quest for Lunch

I would love to excuse myself for not having lunch for a few years, but the truth is, I have been eating lunch. Almost every day, in fact. I just haven’t felt like writing about it.

This might be because, when you have committed the error of starting four blogs, three of them with stupidly large numbers in their names, you just want to run away from your computer and lock the door and ask someone else to please keep the ruddy things updated and let you know when they reach eleventymillion, or however many hikes, recipes, or lunches you were supposed to spend the whole rest of your life blogging about.

Also, I have cats to feed, which means that sometimes I have to do actual work in order to earn money to buy cat food. And, while I’m doing that work, the cats take turns reminding me that it’s nearly time to feed them. So, all in all, it’s quite hard to think about feeding myself, and even more difficult to think about writing about feeding myself.

To make matters worse, my household recently acquired a third cat. Now, I know The Rule: no single woman over the age of forty living on her own may possess more than two point zero cats unless she’s prepared to turn into that weird Venetian cat lady from Jonathan Strange and Dr Norrell and spend the rest of her life eating mouse tails and pigeon heads. But cat number three came with a man: The Hot Hiking Buddy. So that’s not the problem.

The problem is that Cat 3 is well-behaved, because she was brought up correctly by the HHB. This means she doesn’t stand a chance against Cats 1 and 2, both of whom are assholes, because they were brought up by me. Also, the HHB often leaves the house early, or comes home late, or goes away for several days, which leaves me in charge of feeding three cats with two hands and not enough caffeine. It’s taken me a while, but I think I’ve finally got this thing worked out.

So, here, in 28 extremely complicated steps, is:

How To Feed Three Cats

1. Get enough sleep. This is tricky, because Cats 1 and 2 will start wanting you to feed them at approximately 4:51am. They will make it known that morning is approaching by clawing your rug, clawing your mattress, and jumping on your chest until you wake up and yell at them so that they know you’re awake.

2. Get up and open the bedroom door. All three cats will run towards the kitchen. Close the bedroom door. They are now locked out. Get back into bed and try to go back to sleep.

4. Get up and go to the kitchen. Try not to trip over the cats. Find a spray bottle of water. Go back to the bedroom, being sure not to let the cats back in. If any cats come back into the bedroom, pretend to go back to the kitchen so that they follow you, then race back to the bedroom and shut the door. Get back into bed and try to go back to sleep.

5. Cat 2 will resume pawing and Cat 1 will start meowing again. Get up, open the bedroom door and spray Cat 2 with water. Cats 1, 2 and 3 will all run away. Get back into bed and try to go back to sleep.

6. Repeat step 5 until your desired wake up time. Do not, on any account, give in and get up earlier.

7. Get up and open the bedroom door. Go to the kitchen. Try not to trip over the cats. Cats 1, 2 and 3 will now all be meowing, surrounding you like furry, squealing demon shadows. Repeat: try not to trip over the cats.

8. Retrieve food bowls from the floor and food tubs from the cupboards. Try not to drop food tubs and spill cat food all over the floor.

9. Naturally, Cats 1, 2 and 3 must all eat different food. Cat 1 is obese, so must eat a tiny amount of scientific slimming formula. Cat 2 might die if he doesn’t eat a special scientific struvite-dissolving formula. Cat 3 (being normal because she isn’t mine) eats Friskies and Pampers. All three cats would prefer to eat Friskies and Pampers.

10. Put correct food into correct bowls. Push Cat 2 off the counter when he tries to steal food out of the tubs. Close tubs and return to cupboards.

11. Hold bowls for Cat 1 and Cat 2 in the air until Cat 1 and Cat 2 are yowling in their correct positions on either side of the fridge. Place correct food bowls in front of Cat 1 and Cat 2.

12. Quickly place Cat 3’s food around the side of the counter out of sight.

13. Bask in a few seconds of peace. Start making coffee.

14. Cat 2 will decide that he hates his scientific struvite-dissolving food. This is not a surprise. He decides this every mealtime. Cat 2 will wait for you to put the kettle on, sneak around to Cat 3’s bowl, push her away, and start gulping down Friskies and Pampers. Cat 3 will sit and watch him do this.

15. Stop making coffee. Pick up Cat 2, who will growl at you like Marge Simpson:

16. Throw Cat 2 in the bathroom and shut the door. Go back to the kitchen and lock the cat flap.

17. Cat 2 will escape through the bathroom window in 1.4 seconds and try to come in through the cat flap. He will keep trying to get in through the cat flap using a similar technique to the bedroom door pawing, but with extra nose-nudging.

18. Watch Cat 2 trying to get the cat flap open. Maybe snigger a little. Put the kettle on again.

19. While this has been happening, Cat 1 will have finished her tiny portion of scientific slimming formula and moved over to Cat 2’s bowl. Notice that Cat 1 is now halfway through Cat 2’s food.

20. Pick up Cat 1 (who weighs more than you would think possible), put her in the bathroom (she’s too heavy to throw), and shut the door. She will remain there safely because she’s too fat and heavy to climb through the window.

21. Return to the kitchen. Cat 2 will still be pawing at the cat flap. Cat 3 will now be so freaked out by the commotion Cat 2 is causing that she will have abandoned her food and left the kitchen.

22. Follow Cat 3 with her food bowl, apologizing to her. Put her food down somewhere far away and out of sight of the cat flap.

23. Return to the kitchen and start making coffee again while cat flap commotion continues. Contemplate how Cat 2 is preparing you for the Zombie Cat Apocalypse and try to feel grateful to him.

24. Wait until Cat 3 has finished eating. Open the cat flap.

25. Cat 2 will immediately race to Cat 3’s bowl and devour any remaining morsels. He will then jump onto the counters and inspect them for food. Eventually, he will return to his own food bowl and eat what Cat 1 didn’t already manage to.

26. Wait until Cat 2 has finished eating. Open the bathroom door. Cat 1 will stare at you accusingly from the basin.

27. Return to the kitchen and finish making your coffee.

28. Enjoy a few hours of peace until lunch time, when the cats will start letting you know that it’s almost supper time.

Despite the fact that I am officially retired (for as long as I can make the money last) I do actually, occasionally, sort of, kind of do a little bit of work.

It’s all the fault of my famous author former colleague, The Man Who Won’t Stop Writing Books. TMWWSWB has written about 53 already, but somehow that’s not enough for him, even though JM Coetzee himself wrote the blurb for the back cover of his last but one book, using words like ‘magnificent’, if I recall correctly.

If JM Coetzee called something I’d written ‘magnificent’, I’d never write another word again for fear of cocking it all up. But nooooo, TMWWSWB is out there right now launching his next book and busy writing at least three more. And he’s roped me into writing one of them with him.

Unusually for a book, this one already has a publisher, and a contract, and a deadline, and we are even going to be paid some money for it (which TMWWSWB assures me is a situation in the book world somewhat rarer than dragons returning to Westeros). Which means I actually, really have to do this work.

The writing part is admittedly difficult. Since it can take me years to write a random blog post, you can imagine how impressively I am procrastinating over writing something more substantial. But the research part is pretty darned cool, because it involves snooping around Cape Town finding awesome secret things and places. So far I’ve found extinct trees, and hidden caves, and ghosts, and hippos, and pickled Barons. But I hadn’t had any lunches, because restaurants aren’t really allowed in the book.

However, TMWWSWB and I thought we’d make an exception for Pollsmoor Prison, which, as a few adventurous Capetonians (such as The Man Who Catches Many Planes) know, has a restaurant that’s open to the public. It’s staffed almost entirely by prisoners who are almost due for release, as part of a rehabilitation program.

I thought it would be amusing to be driven to Pollsmoor in a Porsche, so I invited The Starman to lunch.

As a world-famous artist, The Starman now wears Campers and drives a Boxster convertible, which does interesting things to his hair when the top is down.

On our way to Pollsmoor, we discussed the matter of his pseudonym.

“I was thinking Porscheman,” I said. “The guy I dated before you used to call you GTI-boy, but you don’t drive a GTI anymore and you’re too old to be a boy.” (I am seldom accused of flattery.)

“That’s gross,” said The Starman.

“What about The Dotman?” I said, referring to his peculiar painting style.

“Ugh,” said The Starman, revving through a tight corner and making me shut up very fast.

The entrance of Pollsmoor Prison looks exactly the way you’d expect a maximum security prison entrance to look: High walls, razor wire, tyre puncturing spikes, and lots of guards in brown.

“Um, we’re going to the restaurant?” said The Starman doubtfully.

Even though I’d been there before, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d got it right. But the guard gave us a friendly smile and waved us through. The Starman inched over the retracted spikes and followed the directions the guard had given us to the Pollsmoor Recreation Centre, going very slowly so that he could gawp at the size of the place. (Like the Tardis, it’s bigger on the inside.)

The restaurant featured atmospheric fluorescent strip lighting, a large number of guards in brown waiting for their takeaways, and plenty of empty tables. A smiling waiter in an apron and inmate’s overalls (fashionably tucked into his socks) brought us a menu.

“What do you recommend?” I asked him.

“The schnitzel,” came his prompt reply. So we ordered two.

It took a while for our food to arrive, so The Starman decided this was the appropriate occasion to tell me all about his plan to rob a bank. According to him, it would take just six months of part-time tunnelling and hopping in and out of man-holes on Long Street.

“Err, that sounds like a lot of hard work,” I said, glancing nervously at the gaggle of guards. “And, anyway, I’m retired, and you don’t need the money.”

Fortunately, our schnitzels were served before The Starman could convince me to play Dortmunder to his Kelp. They were a worthy distraction: huge and golden, covered in a creamy cheese sauce, and accompanied by fries and salad garnish. If JM Coetzee had been there, I feel sure he would have pronounced them ‘magnificent’ too.

And, at R37, a Pollsmoor Chicken Schnitzel is cheaper than a book.

We polished them off and went to the front counter to pay. It was then that I realised that, as usual, I hadn’t brought any cash.

“Err, do you take credit card?” I asked the guard, looking around uneasily for a card machine.

“No, sorry ma’am. Just cash.”

“Hahah,” I said to The Starman. “I know I invited you to lunch, but I’ll pay you back later. You DO have cash, don’t you?”

“Ummm, I think so. Let me just check…”

….

…….

“Yeah, no, I don’t. Sorry.”

“Hahahah,” I said to the guard. “Is there an ATM anywhere nearby?”

“Yes, just up the road at the shopping centre, ma’am.”

“Err, would you mind going and drawing some cash?” I asked The Starman. “I’ll just stay here in the mean time.”

“Sure,” said The Starman.

“You WILL come back for me, right?”

“Sure,” he said again, winking.

“Promise?”

But he was gone.

“Hahah,” I said to the guard, simpering inanely. “I don’t suppose I could interview the restaurant manager while I wait?”

The guard obligingly went to fetch him.

“If you come back for me, I’ll call you anything you like,” I whatsapped The Starman furtively. There was no answer.

The restaurant supervisor, a lovely CO1 called Mr Philander, kindly came and chatted to me, while fielding a ridiculous order from the finance department for 14 hot meals to be delivered in five minutes’ time.

He explained his establishment’s passion for producing quality, fresh food at very affordable prices, and said that, because they want the food to be good, they don’t rush things.

“We want people to come back,” he told me. I assured him that I would come back.

If, in fact, I ever managed to leave.

But The Starman did return, grinning.

“I just got whistled at by about 20 women in blue,” he said, looking pleased with himself.

“Those would be the female prisoners,” said Mr Philander. Apparently the Porsche had been a good idea after all.

The Starman paid for our meals with cash that he had presumably not stolen from the bank up the road. You’re not allowed to tip, so we gave our waiter a big thumbs up instead.

As we drove slowly back out of the prison, The Starman pointed at two of the street signs: Procyon and Castor. (Yes, Pollsmoor has enough streets to need signs for them.)

“Notice the street names?” he said.

“What about them?” I said.

“Well, what are they?” he said.

“Err, moons of Jupiter?” I guessed. The Starman has always had a thing about space, and he’s currently studying some complicated space course at UCT, just for fun.

“No,” he said, pointing at another two: Rigel and Aldebaran. “Try again.”

“Ahah!” I said triumphantly. “Craters on the moon!”

“Okay, this next one will make it easy, although it’s not technically the same thing.”

Taurus.

“Ooooh right. Stars. Well, at least I knew it was something astronomical,” I said, feeling very much like Bridget Jones trying to locate Germany.

“Yes, but why do you think they’ve named the streets after stars?” he continued, while I harrumphed to myself.

“I dunno. Why?”

“Well, what do you do when you look at the stars?”

“Squint?”

“No, you look up.”

“Yes, and?” I still didn’t see what he was getting at.

“Well, when you look up, that gives you hope, doesn’t it?”

“U-huh.” Someone was clearly feeling profound after their schnitzel.

“So have you decided what you want me to call you yet?” I asked, returning to more earthly matters.

And I think we all know the answer to that.

In case you’re wondering, I did think fairly long and hard about mentioning the doubtful conditions at Pollsmoor Prison, the Numbers Gangs situation, and the work being done to rehabilitate prisoners there. I even read several verses of Oscar Wilde’s immensely long and depressing poem “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”, with the lines

that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky

which Nelson Mandela wrote he’d seen the truth of at Pollsmoor. But then I decided that serious issues have as much place in this blog as decent astronomical knowledge and good food photography.

As you may have gathered, I’m fond of having budgets – usually so I can ignore them. But about a year ago, I decided I didn’t feel like having a job any more, and I became an avid disciple of a blogger who calls himself Mr Money Mustache.

Mr MM advocates early retirement (not as in ‘at age 55’, but as in ‘within 10 years of starting work, around age 30’) through badassity. It turns out that badassity is Canook for ‘using your common sense and not spending money on heaps of crap’. It’s amazing how you can change your life just by getting good at not buying things. And, as a not insignificant bonus, you also end up being far nicer to the planet.

Now, a sensible Mustachian would obviously do all their saving before retiring. Naturally, I poo-pooed that idea. And, just before waving goodbye to my desk, I did something else that would have had Mr MM crying into his stash in despair: I bought yet another fancy clown car.

I blame Top Gear, but it seemed natural at the time to fork out close to R200k for a shiny Audi. Besides, I’d recently survived a major accident, in which my last fancy clown car (an overpriced Mini) successfully saved me and my passenger from injuries too awful to contemplate. (We tried contemplating them. It wasn’t fun.)

But, after a year of doing whatever I wanted – which, oddly enough, involved very little driving – that beautiful, expensive piece of machinery suddenly stopped making sense. One day, I woke up and realised I didn’t want it. What I wanted was a vintage hipster bicycle for tootling around town and a tiny little Noddy-car for groceryering. (Unlike Mr MM, I can’t see myself growing enough facial hair to use a bike trailer.)

The Audi quickly found a new, more appreciative owner, and I trawled Gumtree looking for one of these:

Top Gear can also be a good influence on car buyers.

It was an educational experience. Here are a few of my favourite ads:

Ag dad, man!

This man’s got his priorities straight. (I’m pretty sure it’s a man.)

Am intrigued by this democratic approach to Lambo ownership. Wonder if they’d let me own it for hmmm, three and a half seconds?

Not sure how neck brakes work. They sound uncomfortable.

Sardines might work at a push.

Minnows need not apply.

I just can’t. Even.

I worked really hard at my car-buying. I read reviews for almost every tiny car made in the last 10 years. I read detailed instructions on how to inspect a car. I read a 12-page undercover report by a journalist who’d been sent to spy on car salesmen. I read Terry Pratchett. (That wasn’t technically part of the research, but it was necessary after several straight hours of Gumtreeing.)

I drove to Somerset West to grimace at a mangy Panda. I drove to Paarl to get a speeding fine. I went to see cars in the dark and rain and cars that would have looked much better in the dark and rain. Until, eventually, I’d had enough.

I’d like to say that the car I ended up buying is the best possible fit for my budget and requirements, but there’s a chance I simply bought it out of fatigue. Plus, the friend I took with me to inspect it (as per expert car-shopping instructions) was about as much use in this regard as a week-old newspaper.

The Cringe-Inducing Ex is one of only two ex-boyfriends who still actively seek my company. Since, like Taylor Swift and most other women in the world, I’m a psycho bitch from hell, this makes him a very special friend indeed.

On the down side, the CIE’s chief pleasure in my company is retelling the same embarrassing stories about our relationship and making the same mortifying observations about my taste in subsequent boyfriends every single time I see him. In fact, in case you were ever considering dating me, I advise you not to. The CIE will come up with a nickname for you so hideously accurate that I won’t be able to get past it.

“Seen The Turtle lately?” the CIE inquired for the hundredth time as he drove us through the mist towards Montague Gardens.

“No, I haven’t seen him for YEARS. You KNOW that.”

I dashed into Broadway Bakery to buy some pasteis in the forlorn hope he’d lose his train of thought. No such luck.

“So, any news on The Queen Mother?” he asked, crunching pastry. “Is he married yet?”

“I told you, I don’t follow him on Facebook. Why don’t YOU stalk him if you’re so interested?”

“I used to, when you were dating him.”

At last we reached the dealership and took the little car for a test drive.

“What do you think?” I asked him as we pootled along in an underpowered kind of way.

“It seems very small,” he said.

“Yes, that’s the point.”

“But you’ve always had nice cars. What will The Walking Dead think of you driving a car like this?”

“It doesn’t MATTER what he’d think, since I’m never going to SEE him again.”

Back at the dealership, I reminded the CIE to kick the tyres. He pronounced them all present, so I went into the Wendy house and bought the car.

As a thank you for his sterling service, I then dragged the CIE through the icy, windy streets of Lower Woodstock to find some lunch. The CIE looked around nervously.

“Do you walk here often?” he asked.

“Yes, all the time.”

“Are we anywhere near the Old Biscuit Mill?”

“It’s just around the corner.”

“Can we go there, then? I’d feel safe there.”

“I won’t,” I grumbled. “The prices they charge can be very dangerous.”

We wandered through the empty, echoing cloisters of the Old Biscuit Mill. Behind the cutesy artsy bucket mill fountain thing, a warm, inviting deli doorway beckoned.

We went inside. They had bread.

Bread.

They had meat.

Meat.

They had cheese.

Cheese.

Since these are three of my favourite things, we sat down and asked for a menu.

There’s a well-documented phenomenon in behavioural economics called relativity (it’s not the Einstein kind). Essentially, when you’re dealing with large amounts of money, smaller amounts of money seem relatively insignificant.

For example, if you were at the Waterfront buying a handbag for R12,000, the chance of saving R200 on it would be unlikely to cause you to drive to Century City. But, if you wanted a pair of jeans that cost R250, you’d probably drive all the way to Belville to buy the same jeans for R50. I think this is why I barely flinched when I looked at the menu and saw that the sandwiches were around the R70 range*. After all, I’d just bought a car.

I ordered a roast beef on sourdough with shaved Gruyere. The CIE ordered a more reasonably-priced bowl of R55 pea and brie soup. We sat and waited for our food.

“I like their sign,” I said to the CIE, pointing at the deli’s branding on the counter. “I like how they’ve used such a tiny little sausage. It’s cute.”

When one gets to the grand old age of *mumble mumble mumble*, it’s very important to place a high value on your work. After all, you’ve spent decades accumulating your skills and experience, and they’re now almost definitely worth something.

Let’s take my Photoshop skills, for instance. I was taught Photoshop about *cough cough* years ago by a now-world-famous artist and, if I say so myself (and I usually do), I am not bad with a magic wand. Of course, I am absolutely crap at using every single other tool and I routinely can’t remember how to create a mask, let alone what to do with it when I have.

Nonetheless, I once entered a competition at Design Indaba, using Photoshop to create a hideous poster featuring photographs of my toothy grin next to the somewhat confused grins of several random strangers. We had 30 minutes to design our posters and I spent 15 of those minutes trying to remember how to add text. Incredibly, I won. So I am, in fact, a prize-winning designer and Photoshopper, as judged by an international panel of (clearly barking) design experts.

However, this means that I am occasionally faced with a quandary. Some of my best friends are bloggers, and one of them is even world famous. But, while she has wisdom and insight beyond anyone else I know into this crazy little thing called life, she also thinks that I can design things. (She never saw the Indaba poster.)

And, if there’s one thing more important than not working for free once you’re over 23 (unless it’s for a registered charity), it is never to let friends pay you for work (at least, not with their own money). Because that is just awkward. And weird.

So when The Yummy Mummy came over this morning to suggest some improvements to the great work of art that is the header image I made for her blog, she not only praised my efforts with an effusiveness that reminded me strongly of those deluded design experts, but she also insisted on taking me out to lunch afterwards. (Ha! I bet you were wondering when I’d get around to the lunch.)

Now, she knows that, aside from Societi Bistro, which occupies its own dimension of restaurantaurial perfection, I am not fond of fashionable eateries. So we went jousting the taxis around the Salt River circle, then down the gorge of the vile beast that is Voortrekker Road where, at number 109, she led us into an unexpected treasure-trove.

Broadway Bakery is like a miniature, Portuguese version of everyone’s favourite German deli, Raith, minus the annoying accompaniment of Gardens shopping mall. There’s a bakery counter, a coffee counter, a few shelves of imported food-type things, and six tiny bar tables with high chairs where you can sit and order prego rolls, grilled chorizo and other great staples of Portuguese haute cuisine.

Free wifi and Frankie’s Cinnamon Cola. Not what I was expecting on Voortrekker Road.

I almost ordered the bifana, a roast pork roll, but in the end we both stuck with classic beef pregos, responding with detectable levels of outrage when the waitress asked if we wanted chips or salad with them.

Honestly, who orders a prego roll with salad? Yay for chips!

They were delish: soft, fresh Portuguese rolls, obviously baked right there this morning, with tender, tasty steak in perfect amounts of marinade, and hand-cut chips that were much less greasy than most (so probably as good for us as salad in any case).

And, because I am halfway to becoming another Mr Money Mustache, I was thrilled to see that our lunches were less than R50 each. (Back in 2011, my lunch budget was R40, but I’ve made a generous concession to inflation.)

Unfortunately, The Yummy Mummy still has a long way to go on her journey towards Mustachianism, because, not only did she buy my lunch, she then insisted on buying me half a dozen of the most fabulously flakey, crunchy, creamy pasteis de nata to take home. (R7 each – take that, Vida!) And she wouldn’t even take one of them for herself.

Yes, I know they look fluorescent yellow and they aren’t really. But bad food photography is one of the things I pride myself on in this blog.

It’s winter in Cape Town, which, much of the time, is made abundantly clear by things like rain, wind, clouds and dark, damp dreariness. But, sometimes, in a fit of utter absentmindedness, the weather becomes bewitched by the beauty of the city and gives us a day of perfect summer in the middle of winter.

Last Sunday was such a day. I was determined to make the most of it, so I volunteered to accompany The Supersize Stig on a drone shoot of the new supercharged F-type Jeeeaaaaag. (My impressive car knowledge comes from watching 20 seasons of Top Gear.)

We were up at Silvermine Dam by 7.30am, and this is the spectacle that greeted us:

The sun, forgetting to hide behind clouds, rises over Cape Town.

No, actually I mean this:

This is what a proper drone pilot looks like. It would be quite funny, if the whole flying a drone thing weren’t so impressive.

There were two drone pilots and two amazing wasp-like Freedom drones (made right here in SA) to follow the car around. After attracting an admiring crowd on Ou Kaapse Weg, we found a more secluded spot down by the Crayfish Factory and I got to drive the Jeeaaag at 20km/h up and down a hill a couple of times – which neither the Jeeaaag nor I thought was a very accurate depiction of our capabilities.

The cat meeting other cats at the Crayfish Factory.

This was all extremely hungry work, so it was just as well Supersize Stig and I had something special and substantial to look forward to for lunch. Dear readers, this blog has brought me fame and glory. Or at least an extremely nice lunch where the waiter knew my name.

Yesterday, I was invited to Sunday lunch at no less than the 12 Apostles Hotel and Spa – as an actual blogger. Now, I know this is breaking a couple of the supposed rules of this blog. I admit that The 12 Apostles is a fair distance from Long Street. But I’ve already broken that rule loadsoftimes. Also, the buffet lunch, while fantastic value for money, is a tad over my original R40 limit, but I’ve broken that rule in the past too.

So, here is what to do when you have Sunday lunch at one of the world’s leading hotels, in the world’s most beautiful city on the most surprisingly sunny Sunday of the year:

First, park your Jeeaaag. This is easy, because the 12 Apostles actually has parking. Unlike pretty much any other eatery anywhere near the sea on a mid-winter summer’s day in Cape Town.

Take your seat by the window, with a patch of golden sunshine and a perfect view of the sparkling sea, flat as a mirror facing the cloudless sky. Take a deep breath. Let it out. Relax.

Yes! I’ve found it – probably the only quiet, spacious spot in Cape Town for a sunny seaside lunch.

Have Supersize Stig order a bottle of Anura Sauvignon Blanc. He can drive the Jeeaaag home.

Ask Stig to bring you something to eat. Being a stunt driver has made you too exhausted to stand up again. ‘Something’ turns out to be seared tuna and pear and walnut salad with soft boiled eggs and crunchy green beans. Clever Stig!

Want meat? You got it!

Now that your strength has been restored, go back to the buffet for seconds and thirds, smiling at the lady on the keyboard who sounds just like Eva Cassidy (she’s actually Jenie Oliver).

Hear a bell? That’s the whale bell, conveniently rung when they make an appearance so you don’t have to strain your eyes looking for them. Watch other people point at whales. You can see them from your table anyway. No need to stand up.

If you’re feeling a tad energetic, take a proper camera along, because you will see whales getting up to all sorts of antics out there.

Finish the wine as you heroically forego seconds of dessert in favour of cheese and biscuits.

I didn’t have firsts or seconds of the red velvet cake and I rather regret it.

Climb back into the car feeling blissfully content with life, the universe, wine and whales, only to be blasted out of your seat by the howl of an angry engine accelerating in first gear.

Mentally apologise to the diners on the deck for shattering the perfect serenity of their Sunday afternoon.

Vow to use a quieter car next time, when you take the Girl in the Pearls for Pink Tea By The Sea.

Azure Restaurant, with its generous Sunday buffet, is the perfect venue for a relaxed Sunday lunch. Dishes include a splendid array of imaginative salads and amuse-bouches, fresh fish, roast lamb and sirloin and a mass of mouthwatering desserts. Lunch is served every Sunday between 12h30 and 15h30 and costs R285 per person (half price for children under 12).

During August, the 12 Apostles is serving a special pink version of their Tea by the Sea at the Leopard Bar. Ladies get a glass of pink MCC on arrival, followed by freshly baked scones, a selection of dainty finger sandwiches, and a range of pink themed sweet delights, all served with the finest fragrant teas and coffees for R160 per person.

Being fun, fearless and, above all, frugal females, we stopped at most of the shops along the way and absolutely definitely did not spend any money on cute little jersey jackets or awesome afro keyrings.

The Yummy Mummy displays one of the 10,000 items we somehow managed NOT to buy.

Our saunter past the antique stalls on Church Street was brought to an abrupt halt by this sign:

We were peckish, the waiter was friendly, the buffet, which we went inside to inspect, looked pretty darned fine:

All this for R35? It had to be a trap, so I took a closer look…

If anything, tt looked even better close up.

We took our seats at a table outside, which came equipped with soft fleecy blankies for our behinds and a handbag chair. (Restaurants, take note: you should always have an extra chair at every table for ladies’ handbags.)

The friendly waiter came and told us three things, after which I accused him of trying to blow our minds:

1. Our R35 lunch buffet came with a free glass of Merlot or Sauvignon Blanc.

2. Far from being considered rude to pile your plate high, the most bulging plate would win a free tequila.

3. If we wouldn’t mind sitting a moment, he’d bring us some soup to start.

R35!!!!

Susan and I started giggling in a way that was probably alarming in women of our relatively dignified age.

The Yummy Mummy, looking Somewhat Pleased. Note level of wine in glass. I told you it was drinkable.

The Yummy Mummy won the free tequila, according to the waiter, but she ordered another glass of wine instead. Our waiter actually asked us (he asked us!) if we’d like chilled mint-infused water to drink too. After that we drank latte and shared a piece of warm homemade shortbread (not included in buffet).

And then The Gangsta Muffins arrived and started playing Summertime…

As the Yummy Mummy observed when she saw the blue plastic thing being pulled out: “This is going to be amazing.” It was.

It’s midwinter in Cape Town and if life had worked out the way I’d planned, I’d be in Thailand right now. But thanks to a fabulous friend, a wonderful waiter and a funny old musician who uses his own head as a drum, I’ve remembered that this is, after all, The Best City In The World – and I’ve just had the best lunch in it.

Today a complete stranger thought I was planning to propose to him after I’d known him for roughly 50 minutes.

Or, at least that’s what he told the waitress.

The waitress being told the good news.

I’m not sure how this happened, but I’ll try to explain. I recently took up CouchSurfing. For those of you who have not yet signed up for the site with the blue couch surmounted by the confusing blob, which turns out on close inspection not to be a Rodin sculpture (the Thinker, I believe) kissing a Brancusi (I’m not sure exactly which), but actually a map of the globe tastefully portrayed in orange with white outer glow… Oh dear, I’ve written a sentence too confusing to complete.

Right. As I was saying. Couchsurfing.org is the Facebook of travel. The difference being that you actually have to have met someone before they can become your friend on CouchSurfing. You don’t have to go anywhere near a couch, or even know how to surf one. In fact, couches have figured very little in my CouchSurfing experiences so far.

This is what they have been:

CouchSurfing Experience #1: Had lunch at Mr Pickwick’s with an Extremely Intelligent Fellow from Berlin who has the misfortune to think JM Coetzee is The Greatest Living Writer and is writing a book about him. EIF told me he has never met Coetzee and doesn’t want to, just in case Coetzee has to go to the loo, thereby demonstrating that he is human and not, in fact, a god.

CouchSurfing Experience #2: Invited a Brazilian Network Engineer from Minneapolis to come to my friend’s farewell party. BNEFM had spent the last week installing facial recognition networks all over Cape Town for the government, but fortunately everyone else at the party was a geek too. The BNEFM chatted up a pretty blonde geekette and seemed to enjoy himself very much.

CouchSurfing Experience #3: A South African tour operator spotted my profile on CouchSurfing and recognised me as a Former Getaway Journalist (although, like everyone else, he’s never actually read anything I’ve written). He wanted to buy me coffee so we could talk about travel. Very kindly he bought me coffee AND a burger.

I lied. The burger came with a bun. But I’m still avoiding all carbohydrates besides wine, cake, chocolate and macarons, so I removed the bun and ignored the chips. Still, not bad for R35.

I’m still unsure how he thought I could be useful enough to earn my lunch, but we did at least succeed in entertaining each other and freaking out the waitress. CouchSurfer #3 has an endearing way of using words inaccurately, incorrectly or just plain indecorously. His friends call this phenomenon ‘Mikeopropisms’.

Lulled into a false sense of security by his pronunciation of the word ‘facade’, I told Mr Malaprop all sorts of ridiculous stories about my life, cricket scores, and the family trees of people he may or may not have met. By the end of lunch, he was suggesting psychiatric treatment and scaring the waitress with the possibility of an impending proposal on her shift.

But, as I informed Mr Malaprop, I have already met Someone Rather Delicious* and proposed to him. (Although I’m pretty sure he didn’t notice.)

* As it happens, Someone Rather Delicious proposed to Someone Else not long afterwards. Oh well.

The Long Street Café. Interesting things happen here. But not proposals.